I Suppose You've Never Been
by GodOfFlame101
Summary: A colloquial ramble attempted from Kikyou's point of view. Flames welcome. T: Language


A/N: This came out _not at all_ how I first imagined it. That said, I think it's as close as I'm going to get to being able to write a colloquial representation of Kikyo's mutterings and ramblings. She's way too complex for my blood. Eh, maybe I'll get it right next time.

Disclaimer: This author does not have any claim in the Anime/Manga, InuYasha.

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**I Suppose You've Never Been**

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Tell me, have you ever been to Hell?

It's an odd question, one that a staggering majority of people would all give the same response to, and I ask only because it opens the door to another question; another question that will surely elicit some of the most nightmarish fantasies and memories so dark and decrepit that will fester in the catacombs of the unconscious mind. Though, to be fair, I'll attempt to paint a portrait regardless of the answer:

Tell me, what exactly _is_ Hell?

People commonly have an idea of what hell is; People commonly have an idea of what _anything_ is so long as you give them a connotation to work off of; People commonly believe that, simply because it is written on parchment, something is a fact of life. This is behavior, regardless of culture or gender, which People have been performing since the beginning of time. People have fantasized over the unknown from the safety of their villages, telling great yarns of adventure and heroism, often of escapades that they themselves are blissfully ignorant of. Even more spectacular: not only do People believe these fabrications, but they go on to draft more nonsense and dispel more of their blind ramblings upon the land. Ignorance breeding ignorance…but I digress.

At an earlier time – at least, what I assume to be an earlier time; the crevices of my memory have become somewhat conjoined as of late – a poet happened upon me, sharing stories of "truth" from faraway lands. For three days and two nights he rattled on, confiding in the village a tale of a lone man's journey through hell with only a great poet to guide him. He spoke of the river _Styx_ and the passing by boat into the vengeance of an angry lord; he spoke of blood and fire, of excrement and perversion, of suffering and ice. The man spoke with such conviction that, for a time, I believed that disillusioned view of Hell; believed of passionate flames that devoured the physical body of man in response to his sins.

As the memories – or, as it has now become, memory – float pass, a rogue laugh seems to whistle through the breeze. Hell is _nothing_ like that. The western world speaks of extended retribution through physical pain and the eastern world talks incessantly of spirits that moan in suffering beneath the moon-lit sky.

I must say again: Hell is _nothing_ like that.

Hell doesn't have fire. Hell doesn't have spirits. It doesn't have moans or groans; it doesn't have spectral representations of horned demons; it doesn't have _anything_. It's the embodiment of darkness, stretching from one eternity to the next, coating your eyes so thickly that you'll often poke them just to make sure they're open. You see nothing because there is _nothing_. And no matter how much you rub them, claw them, or cry them out, your eyes will never show you _anything_ other than the blackness. It took awhile for me to understand that, to realize that I was to be cloaked in darkness for eternity and – at first, I think – the thought truly did scare me.

And perhaps that initial discovery would not have been so bad if I could have heard my screams in the beginning. At one point I screamed for – what I now believe was – about four days straight, begging for that void to say something to me or, at the very least, let me say something to it; eventually the pain became unbearable and the screaming stopped for a day or so, though the cycle of muted screams continued for a few years…at least, I think it was a few years – as I said, my memories are a bit foggy anymore.

The best – and I mean that with the greatest amount of sarcasm – was when I discovered the final cruel trick that Hell plays on its visitors; the final present that it so tenderly waited for me to discover, waiting for me to scream out again and viciously try – for what will most likely be the eighteenth time at that point – to pummel myself into something beyond death. **There is no such thing as sleep in Hell.** For an eternity you remain in _nothing_, hearing and seeing _nothing_ and knowing that there is _nothing_ you can do it get out. The only things left to occupy time are thoughts of a life that has past…and Hell even goes so far as to pervert those too: Hurt becomes anger, Envy becomes malice, Longing becomes bitterness, Love becomes hatred.

Do you know what a soldier does in War? They murder. They do this for a number of months and years and then they return home. Do you know what a soldier does when he returns home? He murders. He does so because War has trained him, _crafted _him, into an unfeeling bastard who thinks of no one other than himself and acquires his desires by force. When a man comes home from War, he continues what he did in War: He butchers men, rapes women and then butchers the women for the – another callous chuckle rings though the air, understanding the word I considered to use – fun of it. But he doesn't do it just for the fun of it. He does it because it's the **only** way he knows how to live; it is the only way for him to express his hatred and malice for the world, for all that he's seen and all that he didn't wish to see.

War modulates a man because it does not expect that man to survive. The same can be said of Hell; there is no "surviving" in Hell – mainly because it's a paradox – and there is supposedly no such thing as escape. _Supposedly_.

I wonder what would happen if someone _did_ escape from Hell, if the darkness they had become to accustomed to after fifty years – though, I could swear it was only yesterday – came to a halt; if after the brooding of their hatred, the breeding of their malice towards what they _perceive_ to have caused their suffering, they had a chance to be let loose amongst the living. Would you expect that person to exact revenge on whom they _perceive_ cast them aside like a dirty rag, or would you expect them to continue loving: to act as thought they hadn't just spent fifty years trapped alone in _nothing_ and with _nothing_?

To be sure, the latter sounds quite nice and enjoyable to the third party – probably because it means that they won't lose something they hold most dear to them. The third party has probably never had the pleasure of knowing pure emotional pain and experiencing the void that is Hell. However for those of us who have seen Hell, have _lived_ Hell, the only thing that matters to us is having the knowledge that those whom we _perceive_ put us there are made to share the exact same fate as us; that those we once loved are forced to sit in the same pit of hatred and despair that we will inevitably face again.

I'm sure that, by now, you understand exactly what I'm getting at – as sure as I am that you'll disagree with my motivation. I would not expect any different of you however; you who has not yet learned what it's like to be betrayed and put to death by the very thing you love most; you have not yet spent a sliver of eternity in Hell…or perhaps, by our shared fate, you possibly have.

Tell me, _Kagome_, have you ever been to hell?

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Kagome jolted upright, panting heavily as the world spun into focus around her. The cold sweat from her nightly apparition streaking down her face and melding with the tears that had so delicately begun to form and stroll down her cheeks. The nightmare of her past self speaking to her, coldly explaining to her, was so vivid that, had she not known better, Kagome would have thought it was real.

She felt a hand on her back, one with sharp nails and marked with calluses, that felt so gentle and caring.

"Is everything alright, Kagome?" Inuyasha asked, concerned for the girls sudden awakening.

Kagome looked at him, a sad smile on her face, determined not to annoy him with her meaningless visions.

"Yes, Inuyasha." She said sternly. "Everything's fine."

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End-Notes: Flames? Comments? Sign off in the Review section and let me know!


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